


break my heart (and start again)

by publictransit



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Gen, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, alexei mashkov does interpretive dance, jack zimmermann does a spittake, kent parson cries a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publictransit/pseuds/publictransit
Summary: Kent is surprised.Someone is helping him off the ice.Oh, nope. That isn’t a friendly hand.Kent isn’t surprised anymore.Then he hears it. And it’s not surprise that he feels, exactly, it’s too much cold, like claws running up his spine, too much air leaving his lungs to be surprise.It’s the only Russian he knows.(That’s a lie. He’s very nearly fluent at this point, practicing with the rookie from Chelyabinsk. Beltukov asks who he’s learning Russian for. Just for you, Kent tells him, in stilted Russian, with a salacious wink that seems to confuse Beltukov more than anything, and whatever, he’s lying. Kent is very good at lying.)Then, in English, the same voice. Mashkov, Kent realizes, it’s Mashkov.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title from carly rae jepsen because of course it is

Kent is surprised.

Someone is helping him off the ice.

Oh, nope. That isn’t a friendly hand.

Kent isn’t surprised anymore.

Then he hears it. And it’s not surprise that he feels, exactly, it’s too much cold, like claws running up his spine, too much air leaving his lungs to be surprise.

It’s the only Russian he knows.

(That’s a lie. He’s very nearly fluent at this point, practicing with the rookie from Chelyabinsk. Beltukov asks who he’s learning Russian for. _Just for you_ , Kent tells him, in stilted Russian, with a salacious wink that seems to confuse Beltukov more than anything, and whatever, he’s lying. Kent is very good at lying.)

Then, in English, the same voice. _Mashkov,_ Kent realizes, _it’s Mashkov_.

“Little rat,” he says. “No, rat. Right word.”

Kent skates away without saying anything, and he thinks, _Yeah, maybe it is the right word._ He has a game to finish, anyways. Now isn’t the time.

And, yeah, maybe he takes a little longer in the showers than the rest of his team. Long enough that the locker room is cleared out completely, (because he doesn’t want to lie about why his eyes are red ringed and he hasn’t said a word since the second period. He just wants to go to his hotel and sleep forever and then who the fuck knows, okay? Maybe he just doesn’t want to lie right now).

So of-fucking-course, Kent only makes it as far as the exit hallway before he hears Mashkov’s voice. It’s not like he didn’t expect to hear his voice again tonight, he just expected it later. Maybe in whatever of those stupid Meet the Falconers videos he could find online, maybe in his dreams. Who the fuck knows. (He’s a desperate romantic, okay, emphasis on the _desperate._ )

“Parson? What you still doing here? Not cause enough damage on ice?” And yeah, Mashkov sounds a little friendlier than he did during the game, but the edge is still there, and it stings. Kent can’t do this. Or, he can’t do this right. Or, he can’t do this again, he can’t do this to his soulmate.

His eyes are stinging, and Kent is going to cry, _again_ (in the fucking Dunkin’ Donuts Center, _again)_.

Mashkov catches up to him, because he’s a giant. He has the advantage of giant legs, but Kent has the advantage of literally wanting to be anywhere else on the face of the planet in this particular moment.

It’s not enough, apparently, because Mashkov speaks again.

“Parson? You okay?” He asks, suddenly very sincere and very inside Kent’s personal space. Kent lets himself look up, because why the fuck not, at this point. Mashkov is taller than him by at least half a foot, and he’s got big ears and a bigger nose and the biggest brown eyes Kent has ever seen. Kent can taste a tear at the corner of his mouth. _Fuck._ “Not okay.” Mashkov says, looking like he might actually give a shit, like he might _care,_ and that’s what snaps Kent out of it.

He presses his lips together and makes for the door.

Mashkov, because he’s a pushy giant who doesn’t give up easily, which makes him an excellent hockey player (Kent doesn’t think of any other things this might make him good for) grabs his wrist before he can put any distance between them. The grip is loose enough that Kent could break it if he wanted, just Mashkov’s thumb and forefinger, a bracelet on his wrist, and _christ_ , his hands are the size of dinner plates, _easily_ —

And then he’s speaking Russian again. And Kent knows this word, too, it’s the Russian for _the words_ , it’s the Russian that means _soulmark_.

Right.

Kent’s words are scratchy, dialectic Russian, scribbled on the inside of his bicep. If his arm is at his side, you can’t see it. If he wears a shirt that goes to his wrists, you can’t see it. But Kent’s arm is raised away from his side, and the sleeve of his t-shirt has slid up his arm, enough to expose the soulmark.

_You fucking bastard,_ in a language that Kent was desperate to learn for years before he found out exactly what his mark meant, before his mark became a reminder, more than anything else, of just how badly Kent could fuck things up.

Mashkov’s grip on his wrist gets a little bit firmer. Still not unbreakable, but more insistent.

Kent doesn’t look at his face. He keeps his lips pressed together and he doesn’t say a word. Another tear falls, this one rolling off his chin. Kent’s back is against the wall in the hallway, and he slides down to the floor. Mashkov stays up, but he doesn’t pull his hand back from where Kent broke his grip.

“Oh,” Mashkov says, and his voice is lower now, quieter. It no longer fills the hallway. His open hand is stretched towards where Kent is now crumpled on the floor. “I am sorry.”

Kent almost says, _what_ , because, _what_ , but he catches himself. He’s not saying anything. Mashkov squats down beside him, staying on his toes, and grabs his wrist again, even more gently than before.  

“I make this mess,” Mashkov says, and Kent wants to disagree, because Kent Parson wins, no matter what it costs, and this is just the same way he’s screwed up everything else in his life, so why would it be Mashkov’s fault? Of course Kent blew it with his soulmate because of some chippy hockey. “I imagine many times, and I still make mess.” Mashkov is working small circles with his thumb against the wrist he has trapped in his dumb trash-can lid sized hand. “I imagine that I come to America and find that words are common. Suddenly, make sense.” Mashkov smiles, a tiny smile that suits him just as well as the giant one that Kent is used to seeing in Falconer’s promotional material (he had never really focused on Mashkov before, but it’s a hard smile to ignore).

“Many American phrase, make no sense. Go postal, jumping gun, wool over eyes. Oh!” Mashkov says. “Freezing balls of brass monkey. Is favourite, even if it not make sense.” Kent snorts, and there’s the big smile.

“I imagine teammate falls, twist ankle, break skate, and will not be helped off ice. I help anyways.” Like Kent said, pushy, and there’s a glint in Mashkov’s eyes now, and playful might be a little too gentle a word to explain it. He lets go of Kent’s wrist, only to stand abruptly, lean down, and offer both his hands back to Kent. After a moment of staring, Kent puts one hand in Mashkov’s and allows himself to be helped up.

Mashkov is definitely more gentle than he was on the ice earlier. Kent is still not used to someone helping him up. He stumbles forward a little, into Mashkov, which makes him laugh and makes Kent’s face heat up like he’s been sunburnt.

Kent taps his bicep, his soulmark, and points at Tater.

Mashkov shakes his head vigorously.

“No,” he says, and Kent raises an eyebrow. “You say words when ready.” He says it with enough confidence that Kent believes him for a minute. Then, Mashkov launches into an elaborate scenario involving the Boston marathon. Then another, a heroic tale about fighting off a racoon (this startles a laugh out of Kent, and Mashkov beams, and says, _I do research, Kent Parson, vicious animal in Providence_ ). Then again, this time it’s a completely ridiculous tale, involving several hockey legends and an explosion ( _I not research this one so much_ ) complete with actions that could really only be described as interpretive dance, which has Kent laughing, _actually laughing_ , and—

“I imagine that I play game in Seattle, where it rains always, and beautiful man—” He gestures to all of Kent, which makes Kent smile, which makes Mashkov smile back. “Trapped on side of puddle, and I not have jacket, like movie, so I do only gentleman thing.” Mashkov turns, and holds his arms out at his sides, and squats a little.

Kent laughs again, but Mashkov just bounces a little and waves his hands backwards and forwards. Then, Kent understands what he wants.

“There is no way I’m climbing onto your back,” Kent says, and his voice is rusty from crying and laughing and—

Wait.

Kent is headed for the door before Mashkov even has the time to turn around, but Mashkov has giant Russian arms to match his giant Russian legs, and has Kent bracketed against the wall before he can really move, and yeah, again, it’s not the kind of hold that Kent couldn’t escape if he didn’t really want to, but his eyes are pinched shut and he doesn’t plan on opening them again until he’s sure he isn’t going to start _fucking_ crying again. He could have said anything in the world, he had so much time to think, and _that’s_ what he goes with. 

“See? I’m already fucking this up,” he says, eyes still closed.

“No,” Mashkov says. “Look.” Mashkov has his shirt pulled up, and there, on the bottom of his ribs, is Kent’s own careful cursive.

_There is no way I’m climbing onto your back._

“No. You do perfect.” Mashkov says, and Kent looks up into his big brown eyes, and Mashkov seems like he means it.

“Mashkov— um—” and now Kent definitely has both of his hands on Mashkov’s chest, and _alright—_

“Alexei,” Mashkov—Alexei, says, and his smile is absolutely fucking blinding and Kent is pressing his thumb in a line over the place at the bottom of Alexei’s ribs where the dumbest soulmark in the world is, but it’s his mark, and it’s his soulmate, and Kent repeats him.

“Alexei,” and that seems to be all it takes for the hands on the wall on either side of Kent’s shoulders to become the hands on the small of his back, and, fuck, they really are giant hands—

“I imagine many times, Kent Parson. Never imagine this,” and if Alexei wasn’t less than a foot away from him, that might’ve been quiet enough to miss.

“This is better,” Kent says, with almost the right amount of confidence. He’ll get there. “This is real.” Alexei gives him a honey slow smile that Kent has absolutely never seen in Falconers PR, and he thinks, _score_ , that was pretty fucking romantic, and then he’s kissing his soulmate, or his soulmate is kissing him, and—

It is so, so gentle.

Kent typically prefers the biting, harsh, fast, ruthless, etc.. He’s never gone for gentle.

(No one has ever treated him gently before.)

It takes Kent no time at all to decide that he prefers gentle, and that he likes giant hands.

Maybe, Kent thinks, he could love them.

 

**_THE VERY NEXT DAY_ **

****

Alexei Mashkov has a smile that puts the sun to shame and a vicious hickey at the base of his throat.

“Christ, Tater, did you bag a Dyson last night?” Snowy chirps as soon as he walks into the locker room. It makes Jack grin.

“Not know what Dyson is,” Tater shrugs, his smile getting somehow brighter. “I bag soulmate.”

The locker room celebrates like they’ve won a game. Even Jack lets out a cheer, his hand going to his left hip to cover the words there.

“What’s their name?” This comes from Poots, and that makes Jack grin, too.

“When are you gonna introduce us?” Snowy, again, wiggling his eyebrows in a way that Jack thinks is meant to be suggestive. It’s not suggestive at all. Snowy looks like he’s in pain.

“Not need to introduce,” Tater says. “You meet him last night.”

“Oh?” Jack says.

“Name, Tater, give us a name!” Marty shouts from the corner. Jack smiles and takes a long pull from his water bottle.

“Kent Parson!” Tater says.

Jack spits all the water that isn’t suddenly in his sinuses across the locker room.

“Yeah,” Snowy says, looking from Tater to Jack and back to Tater again. “I’m gonna need some explanation from both of you on this one.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm a sucker for silly happy dumb bullshit, so that's the genre i write in, apparently. first time with this pairing, first time with the soulmate au, blah blah blah. as always, i love visitors to my tumblr, plastichouseplants, and i'm wide open for prompts.


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